Before
by Fic Fairy
Summary: With Connie arriving Casualty and doing very little but vamping around annoying Zoe, you have to wonder what happened to bring her back to Holby City Hospital. This is my take on it.
1. Chapter 1

It's the perfect day for a funeral. Bleak, grey. Drizzling. The jacket of my black suit is damp, my hair halfway to frizzy. Proceedings are over. I ought to go home, get the hell out of this depressing place and never look back. But I can't. I won't. I'm not ready to say goodbye.

I feel a sudden tug on my jacket sleeve and I look round to see my daughter, my little mini me, staring up at me, concern etched all over her seven year old face. "Mummy," she says gently, with a note of empathy that far extends her years, "we should go home."

She's right, I know she's right. If not for me then for her; it's no place for a child. But I can't. I don't want to leave him. I hold up my hand to her, extend a finger in her direction.

"One minute."

But it won't be enough. I know that. One minute is not time enough to bid a final farewell to a man I loved, I lost, then found again when in all honesty it was already too late.

I look at Grace again, her expression having taken on a more stubborn tone, a face I recognise as being so like my own. To look at her is like staring into a miniature mirror. She takes my hand, and then, as if she were the mother and I were the child, tries to lead me away from the graveside.

"No." The word is out of my mouth, snapped cruelly at her before I can stop it, and horror clouds her pretty little face, as she's taken aback at my response. I feel instantly guilty, but torn and tired and emotional; pretty much at breaking point. Tears brim in my eyes and much as I try to hold it together for her, I can't.

She watches me closely as the tears that I can no longer fight begin to flow, and then letting go of my hand and she wraps her arms around my waist, hugging me tightly, and as upset as I am I still don't miss the way her shoulders shake as she too starts to cry.

"I'm sorry, Grace, I just-"

Before I can get any further I am interrupted by the sensation of a second set of arms wrapping themselves around me, enveloping me, and my daughter in a hug. I feel breath on my face and then a gentle kiss on my forehead. "Shhh..." the words are gentle in every way, "it's OK. I'm here."

It feels good. To be held. To be looked after. But I know who is behind the embrace and much as it feels right, I know it's also wrong. I pull back. Glance up. "I'm fine."

I'm not, not by a long shot. He knows it and I know it, and he's not about to let it go. He wipes a tear from my cheek, "Connie," that gentle tone again, "you're the mother of my child, let me help you." I follow his gaze to our daughter who is still between us, sobbing quietly, "Let me help her."

It's awkward. I – in the most platonic sense of the word – love Sam with all my heart. He's the father of my child and over time, in spite of having to parent her on two different continents, the bond between us has grown immeasurably, and if I could convince myself to let him in at this moment, he would give me the support I need so badly. But I can't. The loss of my father has left me at an all-time low; my defences are down and if I let myself go down this path I'm going to get hurt.

Because Sam might be Grace's dad; we might share a bond that only co-parenting can bring. But he's not mine to lean on.

He has a wife back home. A wife and a family.

Amber, blonde and 10 years my junior, tolerates my daughter and I because she has to. Sam tells me she "just adores" Grace and I but I suspect that optimistic viewpoint is way off the mark. I have no doubt that we're perceived as the cuckoos in the nest, not least because, although I've never asked Sam for a penny, he has been generous to a fault, lavishing Grace with whatever her heart desires, regularly making trips across the Atlantic and with equal frequency flying the two of us in the opposite direction. It must gall his American family, even if they don't let it show.

But while he is a fantastic father to Grace, as he rightly should be, I can't let him be anything more than that to me. I have to stay strong.

I take a step back, still holding Grace but putting some physical space between Sam and me. I look at him pleadingly and shake my head but make no form of verbal appeal to him to let it drop, not wanting my darling daughter to hear and find herself dragged into the confusion that is already whirling in my own head. There is no point at all in lifting the hopes of a girl who wants nothing more than for her mummy and daddy to live under one roof on a permanent basis.

She's learning early on in life that we don't always get what we want.

Sam obviously appreciates this because he nods, but at the same time he reaches out and gently touches Grace on the shoulder,

"Come on kiddo, let's get your mummy home."

x x x

And I'm not pissed at him for that, because that had been the arrangement in the first place. Grace and I travelled in an undertaker's car to the funeral and it was always the case that Sam would drive us home afterwards. That said, after my emotional outpouring at the graveside, by the time we got home, I felt vulnerable having him there, not least the way he took control from the minute we walked through the front door. He settled Grace down in front of the TV, with juice and biscuits, planting a fatherly kiss on her head as he did so, then he moved to the drinks cabinet, fixed me a drink, handed it to me and then gestured with his eyes that I should join him in the kitchen.

Which I did. Reluctantly.

Luckily his conversation opener pertained to our daughter, something I could hardly object to.

"She seems a little better, now we're back here."

I nod, as I take up position leaning against the breakfast bar, putting as much space between him and me as I possibly can, "Yeah." I pause, hesitantly, "Do you think I made a mistake in taking her?"

He shakes his head, "No. She wanted to go, and you know what she's like once she gets an idea in her head." We both smile then; aware that actually in describing our daughter's stubbornness he could actually be talking about himself. Or me.

I sip the Scotch, grimacing yet relishing it slightly as it burns the back of my throat. Then I force myself to look at him and smile again, although slightly more weakly, "Thanks for making the journey. I know it made easier for her, having you here."

"And what about you? Are you glad I'm here?"

I'm surprised by his question, and a little irritated. Clearly I hadn't made my point clearly enough back at the graveside. To his credit though, he must realise it because he changes the subject, although I can't say his next question fills me with glee either.

"Who's Neil?"

Neil. Well what can I say? Neil is – or should I say was – the first person in a long time that I'd allowed myself to get close to. For all the good it did me. We'd met through our mutual work with the ETB, and I have to say it made all those trips to Brussels so much more fun. Although what I was doing back home, caring for my father and daughter, was important to me, it was just nice to step away from it occasionally, be something other than a daughter and mother. A lover.

But it was meant to be fun, you know, a flirtation. I wasn't in the right place for anything else, but things progressed; got serious and I accepted it. I even introduced him to my daughter; my daughter who had apparently informed her father of his existence.

I avoid his gaze as I respond, "What's Grace told you?

"That he stopped coming by when you found out your Dad was dying."

I look up, surprised, never having realised that Grace would have the maturity to put the pieces together. "What else did she say?"

"That she thought he was an idiot." His words are harsh but his tone gentle, and all honesty they amuse me more than they should. I feel more like smiling that I have all day. Sam moves closer to me, reaches out and strokes my cheek, regarding me curiously, "How come you're smiling?"

My smile widens as I can't resist laughing, "Because Grace has a point. And," I add, "is clearly a far better judge of character than I am.

x x x

He dumped me, broke it off, 'stopped coming round', call it what you will, at LEGOLAND Windsor of all places. After a busy morning we were in a cafeteria style restaurant, Grace sat nearby at an activity table putting together what looked suspiciously like an LEGO operating theatre, when he dropped the bombshell.

"Connie, I can't deal with this."

Misconstruing his words I instantly felt my blood pressure rise, and I stared at him incredulously, "I'm sorry?" It came out louder than I meant it to, and I lowered my tone, not wanting to draw my daughter's attention to the conversation, "Neil, this was your idea. You WANTED to spend time with Grace, you wanted to bond with her."

Neil followed my gaze to my daughter, a sad look on his face that I'd have paid good money to wipe off if physical violence had been my kind of thing. "It's not Grace." He murmured, "Grace is an amazing child. I'd love to be a father to her."

"So it's me then?" I charged on, bristling inwardly at the implication that he could replace the fantastic father my daughter already had, and not wanting to read too much in my angry reaction to it. "Grace is 'amazing' but it's me you can't be doing with? What's your problem Neil, too much sex a problem for you is it?" I was being bitchy and I knew it, but I had a rising suspicion that I knew where the conversation was headed, and I couldn't believe anyone could be quite so cruel.

But apparently, Neil could. "It's your Dad, Connie. The Alzheimers is one thing, but Wednesday's diagnosis, it's just too much."

"You think?" For a second time I found myself struggling to modify the volume levels of my voice, "Neil, today is Saturday. My father was diagnosed with terminal cancer on Wednesday. He's got months, if not weeks to live, and you think it's too much for YOU?"

He reached out to touch my hand but I pulled it away, the growing love between us having disappeared as unexpectedly as it had arrived. He looked like he was going to try again but then let his hand drop, and gave me a weak smile, "I don't deal well with death, Connie, not on this level. It's too personal."

"Then why are you here?" Cruella De Beachamp had kicked in by that point. She doesn't make regular appearances in my personal life these days but when I feel violated or threatened I can't help but let her show her face, her attitude and her crisp, cutting and often patronising tone. "You've known since Wednesday. As previously established it's now Saturday. Why didn't you tell me before? Why here? Why in the middle of LEGOLAND?"

He shrugged, spinelessly, like the pathetic invertebrate that he was proving himself to be. "You wanted to do this for Grace, like you said, to keep things normal." He was right in that respect. After the news I'd received on Wednesday, a trip to a theme park was the last thing I'd felt like doing, but the trip had been long planned, and my daughter was so excited that we'd left Dad – who at the end of the day no longer had the mental capability to understand the ramifications of the diagnosis – with his carer, and made the trip to Berkshire. But all the same,

"It's hardly normal if you choose to finish with me in the middle of the outing is it?"

Another shrug, and then, the final insult.

"I'm not finishing it. I mean, maybe we could hook up again in a few months, you know, when…"

I didn't allow him the 'honour' of finishing his sentence, unable to believe that he would even think such a thing, let alone say it. Without another word, I got to my feet, picked up the tray with the remnants of our lunch on it and walked with it to the nearest bin, counting to 10 to stop myself from screaming out loud. I emptied it, returned to the creep who was eyeing me nervously, then turned my attention to my daughter,

"Grace" I was amazed how even and controlled my voice sounded, given the fact I was in such a rage inwardly, "Finish up there sweetheart, Neil wants to go on the pirate ship." I turned back to 'him' noting the quizzical look on his face, then lowered my voice as low as it would possibly go so Grace wouldn't overhear.

"You think my daughter is amazing? Then give her an amazing day. She deserves it with everything that is going to happen to her over the next few months. And then" I hardened my tone, "you get the fuck out of my life, and don't you DARE expect to come back. You understand?"

He didn't respond, but then he didn't need to. I'd made my position perfectly clear.

x x x

"He actually said that?" Sam's incredulity is clear as he tops up my drink, "He actually implied that you could start afresh after your Dad died?"

I sip my Scotch, and nod; my own disbelief at his cheek, having long faded to mild irritation, "Yeah." I smile thinly as I ask my next question, "You think I should call him?"

Sam takes a drink from his own glass, "Yeah. Why not?" he grimaces, and then adds, "When Hell freezes over. God, Connie," I become aware that he's eyeing me with considerable pity and before I can stop him he's beside me with his arm around my shoulder, "What an asshole."

It's another one of those crunch moments, the ones where I know I should make a flippant joke or push his concern aside, or get generally uppity at him for having the audacity to feel sorry for me. But I can't. Because suddenly, just as at the graveside, it all becomes that little bit too much.

And the tears come.

x x x

My daughter's mother is in my arms in tears, for the second time in as many hours. The first time, she'd seemed reluctant, seemed to want to fight it, but second time around that fight is gone, and it absolutely breaks my heart.

It's even worse, in many ways, than seeing my own wife in tears. Amber is a lady of considerable emotion and isn't afraid to show it. Compared to usual calm and controlled manner of my English ex, my American wife could be considered something of a drama queen. But tears have never been Connie's way. She'd rather rip your head off that cry on your shoulder.

Which make the fact she seems so broken hard to face.

I hold her as sobs wrack her body and hope like hell that Gracie doesn't choose this moment to come and look for us. I saw her shock at Connie's meltdown at the graveside and don't think she'd cope with a second episode any easier than she did the first. I run my fingers through Connie's hair, trying to calm to her, surprised by the way she's clinging to me, and the force of her tears. I gently hush her, and eventually the sobbing subsides, and she looks up at me, her eyes bloodshot.

"I'm not crying over him; that jerk. It's my Dad."

I believe her. To a point. And I certainly believe that she believes her tears are solely perpetuated by the death of her father. But I know Connie; I know what she's like. For so long, she holds it together, she remains strong, taking each hit on the chin until, in the end, she breaks. I've rarely been party to it, and when I have it has been about our daughter, but I am in little doubt that the tears she just cried have been welling up for a long long time. Maybe even before Neil.

But I'm not about to try and argue that with her. Instead, I nod,

"I know. And that's why, if you'll let me, I'd like to stay in the spare room tonight."

I'm pushing my luck, I know that. I never stay at the house when I'm in the UK; we mutually agreed that it would give Grace false hope that one day we will all live under one roof on a permanent basis, although I also know Connie would feel it to be a huge invasion of her privacy. So instead I keep a small apartment nearby that stands empty most of the year but is there when I need it. That said, I feel it would be wrong to go there tonight. Afternoon is fast turning to evening, it's nearly Grace's teatime and bedtime comes soon after, and the last thing I want after that is Connie to be alone with her thoughts. I want her to have someone there if she needs them, and if that has to be me then so be it.

As I predict, she opens her mouth to argue, but then, to my surprise, another tear slides down her cheek and she nods.

"I'm just so sick of having to hold it together, Sam." It obviously pains her to say the words, but she says them none the less. "I need someone tonight… I need you."


	2. Chapter 2

I regret the words instantly. They are a complete mistake and I know it. I'm not the kind of person who 'needs' anyone, let alone Sam. I needed him once - to impregnate me, to give me the child I wanted so badly - but that was where it ended. And yes, over the years I ended up, much to my distain to begin with, needing him to be a father to our daughter, and support me as a father does a mother, but… that wasn't this.

This is ME needing him. Not Connie, the mother, but Connie, the woman. Those are two different guises with two very different conations when it comes to admissions of need.

It's one thing him supporting me as Grace's mother, it's another thing entirely to let him think he's going to have a piece of me. That he gets to see my weaknesses, my emotion.

I think he must sense my regret, my sudden reticence to the possibility of letting him in, because almost immediately he chivvies me upstairs, with gentle instructions to take a bath and try and relax, and in putting some space between us, giving me room to breathe but similarly also not giving me the opportunity to argue the point about him staying over.

Behind the closed door of the bathroom, I sink under the water, below the bubbles, washing the day away, but sensing that actually, given the conversation I've had with Sam, it's far from over.

I feel like such an idiot, furious at myself for falling to pieces, but, if I were to be brutally honest, I guess it had always been only a matter of time. The last few months had taken their toll on me - Neil, the diagnosis, nursing my father through his final days, trying to put a brave face on it all for Grace. I was tired. And that was without the revelations that the last week had brought.

If Sam had broken through my defences, it was hardly surprising. Even I could see that.

All the same, I have to be careful; I know that all too well. If I get in over my head, if I over complicate our relationship, then there will be no way back for us, and I can't have that. Grace needs her father in her life, and I won't be the one to take him from her.

It's that resolve I take with me as I head back downstairs after my bath, clad in an old pair of scrubs, a throwback from my Holby days and a fine pair of pyjamas by anyone's standards. I enter the kitchen, and Sam, looking around from his position at the sink, smiles when he sees me.

"Now, that is how I remember you." He slips off a pair of marigolds that I didn't even know I owned and comes over to me. "Well, almost." He reaches out and touches my hair, which has grown in length somewhat over the last few months. I've had it longer for a while, but whilst nursing my Dad, regular appointments at the hairdressers became a thing of the past, and my once perfectly coiffured locks are now halfway down my back, although why Sam felt the need to comment is beyond me.

I step away from him, letting the comment about my hair slide, instead returning to the subject of the scrubs, "As loungewear goes, they're cheaper than Jack Willis."

"They're called scrubs, Daddy." Grace pipes up from where she's sat at the breakfast bar, eating a jacket potato with beans, obviously prepared whilst I was bathing. "I want some, but mummy says they don't come in child sizes."

Sam grins, "Never mind, kiddo, maybe when you're bigger."

"Bigger smigger. I want to look like a doctor now. I have a hat. I wore it to school for 2 whole weeks."

"A hat? Does she mean a surgical cap?" Sam looks to me for confirmation, no doubt wondering what our daughter's £8,000 a term independent prep school with strict uniform policy, including yellow dress , blue blazer, and a £29.99 straw boater, made of her turning up in such a state. He ought to know better though, this is our daughter we're dealing with, well versed in getting her own way, even at the age of 7, and in this particular case, no one could have denied her.

"It was an old one of mine." I explained, "She…" a lump rise in my throat at the memory, "when Dad was sick… Grace helped me be his Doctor. So, you know, it was only right she wear the hat."

If Sam hears the emotion in my voice, he lets it go, obviously wanting to keep things light for Grace. Instead he grins slightly, "An old one of yours? Please tell me it was the pink leopard print, not the god awful paisley thing."

I open my mouth to answer, but Grace beats me to it, "Of course it was the pink one, Daddy; pink looks so good with blue and yellow." As a look questioning her sartorial thinking passes between her father and I, Grace turns her attention to me, "Did you make the bed in the spare room for Daddy?"

"You told her?" I ask Sam, a little miffed, having assumed that we would have told Grace he was staying the night together.

He nods, "Yeah. I've told her all about it. She knows the deal. Right Grace?"

Grace rolls her eyes, looking more like me than ever, and with exactly the same tone I use whenever I'm humouring Sam responds, "Yeah. You're staying cos Mummy is upset about Granddad. But just tonight and just in the spare room and there's not going to be any kissing or funny business." She looks at me questioningly, "What's funny business?"

"Erm. Business. That's funny." I reply, unconvincingly, as my blood pressure raises several notches. "Sam. The living room. Now. Please?" He follows me without argument, as well he might taking into account the exchange that we've just had with our daughter. I turn on him the instant we're alone, "What was that?"

He looks nonplussed. "What was what? She needed to know Connie, no point surprising her with it at breakfast. Best she understands from the get go. You were the one who wanted to take a no nonsense, no bullshit attitude to parenting her after all. That's why we have a daughter on our hands who is 7 going on 27."

He's right of course. The reason Grace is my mini me is because I brought her up to be. Dad once joked – on one of his better days – that he thought they'd broken the mould when they made me, but that I'd clearly found it again when I had my own daughter. I'd never talked down to her, or soft-soaped hard truths for her. Even when we found out Dad was dying, I told her the truth from the start. But, all the same…

"Kisses? Funny business?"

Sam shrugs, "She asked about the kisses. The funny business was all me. Sorry, maybe that was a step too far."

I wave away his apologies, too taken aback by the fact Grace had asked him if he would be kissing me. As I said before, I know she'd like a family that isn't spread over thousands of miles, but it's a done deal, and she knows that. It made me more than a little sad that she'd still be disillusioned enough to ask Sam such a question, and, for the first time in a long time, I wonder if I made the right decision 7 years ago.

Sam must sense my melancholy because, as seems to be coming part of the course, he moves to hold me. "Connie," he says gently, "please don't overthink this. She is fine. She understands; she knows the set up. She was just having a little push of the boundaries; it's hardly surprising, given what the two of you have been through lately."

His argument makes sense, and I let him reassure me, although as I settle myself into his arms, as his hands gently rub my back, I can't help thinking that Grace is not the only one guilty of pushing the boundaries at that precise moment.

It seems to be something we're all struggling with.

xxx

Connie, in one way or another is doing nothing to dissipate the concern I am feeling for her, behaving in so many ways as out of character as I have ever known her. I think she realises it too, because every now and again it's like she catches hold of herself, and tries to distract me with a brief blaze of angry, or cheery flippant remark, but it's notable, in both cases that neither the anger nor the cheeriness ever reaches her eyes.

In some ways it's nice when I get chance to take some time out and spend some time with Gracie, taking her upstairs and reading her a bedtime story, but I've barely reached the end of the first chapter when I realise she's not really paying attention, instead staring out of the window, at the stars.

It doesn't take Einstein to work out what she's thinking about. I put the book down and sit beside her, wrapping my arm around her and pulling her to me,

"You thinking about Granddad?"

She nods, "My teacher says he's gone to heaven, up in the sky, with the stars, but that's crap right?"

Shocked, stunned and amused at her words, particularly the last but one, I find myself flabbergasted, a fact which seems to amuse Gracie no end.

"What? It's a word, Daddy. Mummy says it all the time, but it's OK, I don't use it at school."

Well I can hardly argue with that, not least since her intonation on the word itself was pure Connie. I shouldn't, but actually I find it rather funny, although I hadn't forgotten what had led to her use of the word in the first place. I cuddle her closer, "Sweetie, I think your teacher said that because when people are gone, it's easier to think of them being somewhere nice."

She gives me her famous eye roll, "Well heaven sounds boring. I'd rather think of granddad being at M&M Land in London." She smiles, "It's good there, Daddy. They have M&Ms in every colour of the rainbow."

I smile at her words, thinking that for all my daughter is wise beyond her years, she's not beyond moments of childlike behaviour when it suits her. And in all honesty, I can't think of a better time for that to kick in for her than now. I kiss her on the forehead, "Well if that makes you happy, you think that. I'm sure Granddad would have liked M&M Land too." I give her one last hug and head towards the door. I'm about to hit the light switch when she stops me.

"Daddy, thank you for coming."

Like I would be anywhere else when my daughter needed me. But she wasn't finished.

"Daddy, you remember what I said to you on Skype?"

I nod. The conversation I had with Gracey, 5 days ago, with she in the UK and me in New York, was not one I was likely to forget in a hurry.

"You won't tell Mummy will you?"

"No." The word leaves my mouth without hesitation, and I mean it.

There are some things that Connie just doesn't need to know.

xxx

I'd just come out of theatre, and was taking five in front of a pile of paperwork in my office when the phone rang. I reached out and grabbed the receiver, my attention still really on the budget forecast in my hand.

"Samuel, you there?"

I put the forecast down, "Amber? You OK?" It was unusual for my wife to call me during the day, particularly at my desk. We both have busy working lives so usually just a text at most, and that's only in cases of emergencies, or clashes with school and kindergarten pick ups.

"I'm fine." She said, clearly wanting to reassure me, probably figuring I'd taken too many stressful phone calls of late with my daughter's grandfather being on death's door, and then passing away. "But do you have your phone switched off? I just got a text from Gracie. She wants you to Skype her. She said she text you but you didn't answer."

I cursed inwardly, knowing that my phone was in my desk drawer, and that I hadn't checked it since before I went into theatre. I felt a pang of regret at having not been there for my daughter when she needed me, but then that's pretty much part of the course for an absentee father.

"Do you have Skype at work? Or do you want me to do it? I'm on Fifth Avenue at the moment but am heading back to the office in a minute. I know I'm not Dad an' all but if it would help."

Amber's offer was sweet, and I appreciated the gesture. Her generosity both materially and with the kindness and time that she shows towards both of the stepchildren she inherited when she married me are just one of the many reasons I love her. But, at the same time, with my little girl mourning her grandfather I felt I should be the one to make the call.

I thanked her, double checked childcare arrangements for that evening, and then hung up, before loading up Skype which I'd installed on my office PC for moments like this. My bosses were understanding; with a daughter living several time zones East sometimes parenting had to happen during working hours.

She was already there, and answered my call within seconds of me dialling. I waited for her normal excitable exclamation of "Daddy!" as I appeared on her screen, but it didn't come. Instead, she burst into tears. It was understandable, of course, but it still shook me, and broke my heart at that I couldn't even be there, let alone make it all better.

I waited until the crying stopped, then asked how she was doing.

She started to sob, told me that she wished I was there.

Another knife to my heart, but at least I was able to reassure her, tell her that I was on my way and would be there for the funeral; promised her a thousand cuddles.

That was when it came, when she told me the real reason she had been desperate for me to call her.

"I don't need cuddles. Mummy does. She won't eat, she won't sleep. Daddy, she's not like my Mummy anymore, and it's scaring me. I just don't know what to do…"

Xxx


End file.
